


An Angel In Agony

by TiredEagleOfManwe



Series: The Sufferings of Sanguinius [1]
Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Blood Drinking, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death In Dream, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreams vs. Reality, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grimdark, Heartbreak, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inner Pain, M/M, Mental Anguish, Mind Rape, No Incest, No Sex, Non-Sexual Intimacy, One Shot, Platonic Cuddling, Prophetic Dreams, accidental injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:55:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22243699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiredEagleOfManwe/pseuds/TiredEagleOfManwe
Summary: As the fleets of the loyal Triumvirate prepare to re-enter the Ruinstorm and continue their journey to Terra the Blood Angel captains Azkaellon and Raldoron struggle to ease the pain and mental anguish of their suffering primarch Sanguinius, unprepared for the emotional venerability and peril that arises as they try to alleviate the Great Angel's agony.
Relationships: Azkaellon/Raldoron/Sanguinius
Series: The Sufferings of Sanguinius [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1614991
Comments: 1
Kudos: 28





	An Angel In Agony

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Comfort of Phantoms](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22323538) by [TiredEagleOfManwe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiredEagleOfManwe/pseuds/TiredEagleOfManwe). 



> This is set during the Horus Heresy novel 'Ruinstorm' by David Annandale (near the end of chapter 7) with references made to 'Fear to Tread' by James Swallow. 
> 
> This story isn't *that* violent but everyone's mileage varies so I tagged it to play it safe.
> 
> I wanted to take a break from my ongoing Corax/Konrad Curze story so I spent almost a week writing this. Sanguinius is my favorite primarch btw. Enjoy.

**I.**

_The shadow comes like a thief in the night, heralding ruin, despair and death, yet is itself a mere forerunner of the true horror to come. Its black wing sweeps across Thrinos and none are spared its attentions, neither the growing multitudes of mortal refugees who dwell upon the world’s surface nor the Dark Angels, Ultramarines and Blood Angels legionaries in the fleets at anchor in orbit above it. All dreams are tainted; all hopes are drowned. None are exempt. All are united under the doom of the Pilgrim. Mortal, Astartes and primarch alike pause in their preparations for war as a wave of anguish and dread washes over them. It falls like a shroud upon the Angel as he meditates upon his destiny in the Sanctorum Angelus and engulfs his mind, casting him through time and space and flinging him onto the deck of the Vengeful Spirit. Once more Sanguinius falls as Horus delivers the fateful death-blow, his brother's talons ripping and sawing towards his straining hearts. Pain floods through the Angel and his sight goes gray at the edges. He screams as Horus pushes the blades still deeper. Shadows veined with red and blue and green and violet writhe suggestively about him. The Warmaster smiles. Did you truly expect to defeat me, brother? The Angel fights and falls and dies. Again and again and again. Darkness opens its jaws to sallow him. The very galaxy itself has betrayed him. Sanguinius rages impotently against his doom. Night is falling but he will not go quietly. The Angel rises again on defiant wings. He faces Horus and raises the Blade Encarmine. Stop, brother. Do not do this. The Warmaster laughs. Too late.  
_

**II.**

Azkaellon pauses before the engraved doors of the Sanctorum Angelus as a stab of uncertainty enters his mind. The Angel is fiercely jealous of the brief snatches of time he gets to himself and never before has he called upon the Captain of the Sanguinary Guard during his private hours of meditation and reflection. But there had been no mistaking the summons; the command, transmitted through Azkaellon’s secure vox-channel, was brief and brooked no argument: _Azkaellon, my son, attend to me. Alone._

Except Azkaellon has not come alone. At his side the Ninth Legion’s First Captain, Raldoron, also hesitates, one gauntleted hand resting on the ornate doors. He, too, knows this is unusual; even serving as Sanguinius’ equerry the primarch has never requested him at such a time. He has received the same summons, believing the Angel desired to hold conference with him in private. The two Space Marine captains share an unsettled look, and each sees the same question reflected in the eyes of the other: _Does he know about Amit? Has he learned what truly befell the Space Wolves' watch-pack on Signus Prime?_

If Sanguinius has learned the truth there can be no attempt made to deny it to his face. Both Blood Angels must acknowledge their deceitful decisions, face the consequences of their lies and submit to whatever judgments the Angel deigns to deliver. Azkaellon and Raldoron are not proud of the choices they made, but remain grounded in their agreement that they were the right ones decided upon necessarily at the time. They had wanted to spare their gene-father further grief and preserve what fellowship and unity the Legions still maintained. Abruptly Raldoron places his free hand on Azkaellon’s pauldron. His jaw is set and his eyes are firm: _We must help him understand. We must explain to him why it was necessary._ Azkaellon gives the faintest of nods, his hearts steeling within him.

“My lord primarch,” Raldoron touches the vox-bead at his ear. “Azkaellon and I have come, as per your summons. May we enter?”

No reply. The shadow lies heavily upon the _Red Tear_ and upon the entirety of the Blood Angels’ fleet, spreading ever outwards to claw at the hearts of their Ultramarine and Dark Angel allies. Azkaellon and Raldoron are not fully immune to the sensations of dread and hopelessness that their yet unseen, unknown enemy bombards them with, but they know Sanguinius is especially affected by the attacks. Racked with guilt over the gene-flaw his sons have inherited and tormented by precognitive visions, the Angel suffers in silence and fights with a savage strength born of desperation and the need to atone, but his pain cannot be hidden fully from those most loyal and devoted to him. The doors to the Sanctorum are not locked. Sanguinius has always trusted his commanders to respect his privacy and they have never once violated his trust. The corridor is clear of guards and Legion serfs. Despite the summons, both captains feel as if they are intruding, soiling their primarch’s few hours of peace with their presence and their problems. _We should leave_ ; the thought comes unbidden to Azkaellon’s mind. _Let him rest._ _Let him have his peace while it lasts._ His resolve wavers and he takes a step back. He doesn’t want to cause Sanguinius any more pain.

“Sire, I am coming in,” Raldoron voxes suddenly and throws open the doors, a look almost akin to fear on his normally stoic face. Acting on instinct, heedless of the cause, Azkaellon unlocks his bolt pistol as he follows the First Captain into the wide circular chamber, panning the weapon about the softly-lit space, suddenly and irrationally certain it is filled with lurking daemons and that the Angel has been taken, spirited away by fell powers far from the protection and safety of his Legion. Almost immediately he sees Sanguinius and his hearts almost stop with relief. The angelic primarch is lying on his back in the center of the Sanctorum; he is still fully armored save for his helm, the _Blade Encarmine_ secure at his belt. He gazes up at the domed ceiling high above him, his eyes blank and unseeing. His great white wings are folded firmly against his sides and his arms are crossed tightly over his ornate gold breastplate, his gauntleted hands gripping at his ornamented paulderons. He does not respond to the intrusion and gives no sign of recognizing his sons.

“My lord? Sire?” Finding no foes within the vicinity Azkaellon drops to one knee beside the unresponsive primarch, his armor grating on the cold marble floor. The Angel’s beatific features are marred with the strain of some vast internal turmoil, his perfect face drawn in response to a devastating psychic agony. “I am going to summon the apothecaries, lord,” Raldoron says, having knelt down across from Azkaellon, a stricken look in his eyes as he beholds his gene-father’s silent distress. A shudder rips through Sanguinius’ body; then he gasps and his eyes briefly clear. He recognizes Raldoron. “No – no, my son; I would have summoned them myself. They cannot help me.” His beautiful voice is now reduced to a forceful whisper, each word formed with a great effort of will. "The shadow is so vast, so heavy -"

Another shudder tears through the Angel and he arches his back, clutching himself tighter. Sweat now streaks his pale brow beneath his matted golden hair. Azkaellon shares a quick glance with the First Captain. This has nothing to do with Amit or the Space Wolves, but there is no time to feel relief. “Sire, what do you want us to do?” Raldoron asks desperately, uncertainty entering in his voice. “We could contact your brothers –”

Sanguinius thrashes violently as if subjected to excruciation and tosses back his head, his bootheels grinding into the marble. _“I want you to stay with me!”_ he cries out, his pain-filled plea piercing the psyches of the two Blood Angels to their deepest depths. _“I want you to hold me!”_ The Angel’s body goes abruptly limp and his eyes glaze over once more.

Azkaellon does not fully understand but he does not need to. As Captain of the Sanguinary Guard he exists to protect the life of his primarch against any and all foes, whether they be human, xenos, or, as darker truths had become known, the daemons of the warp. None of these now directly threaten Sanguinius’ existence, but something – some overwhelming vision or monstrous psychic force – is assailing his gene-father and he will do whatever needs to be done to aid him. Lowering himself to both knees he tentatively rests a gauntlet on Sanguinius’ left hand, still not certain he knows what, exactly, the Angel expects of him.

“I know what he needs,” Raldoron whispers quietly as he situates himself near the primarch’s head. Azkaellon watches, perplexed, as the First Captain removes his gauntlets one after another and sets them aside, his grief-filled eyes never leaving Sanguinius’ tormented face. “We should have come to him sooner, after he learned the truth about Horus' betrayal on Signus.”

With a surprising gentleness that belies his terrible strength Raldoron gathers the Angel’s head in his callused war-scarred hands and slowly eases it onto his lap. Compared to the primarch’s size and stature it is like watching a mid-sized child cradle a large full-grown adult in his arms. Something gives inside Azkaellon’s hearts at the sight. Emotions he had thought extinct spill through him, as if a dam has broken deep within. Reaching out he delicately draws his fingers across Sanguinius’ forehead, brushing away the sweat-plastered strands of silk-spun hair that cling to it. The Blood Angel realizes with a pang of regret that this is something he has always wanted to do – that it is something he should have always _been_ doing.

“No, brother,” he says, feeling an immense sea of sadness well up inside him. “We should have come to him from the very beginning, right from the start, after every compliance, every battle, every engagement, every time he killed; not just with reports or requests or counsel but for _this_. We should have always been there for him...like _this_ …”

Raldoron nods. He is weeping. Azkaellon’s own cheeks are wet; he does not know when the tears began. He had not known he had still possessed the capacity for tears.

Sanguinius convulses again, the terrible shudders twisting through him like a torturer’s knives, forcing sporadic pain-wrought words from his lips none of his sons had ever heard until now.

“Brother… _Horus_ …why? Stop…please stop. Do not do this…It hurts…stop…brother, _please_ …”

The two Blood Angels are mute with horror. In recognition of their great devotion and duty to the Ninth Legion their primarch has shared with them the true origins of the Red Thirst, but there is only one legionary in the whole fleet who knows of the cruel fate the cosmos has reserved for the Great Angel. Neither Azkaellon nor Raldoron can know that their gene-father has relived his own death at the hands of Horus again and again since entering the Ruinstorm; that every waking moment Sanguinius fights to keep his consciousness from being overwhelmed by visions of that final, fateful battle aboard the _Vengeful Spirit_. Now, assailed by the psychic shadow of the Pilgrim, he writhes in agony as the Warmaster’s talons tear into his already-injured body, ripping into his hearts and extinguishing his life. The Space Marines cannot see the triumph or the mockery in Horus’ pitiless eyes, nor feel the black, black rage that consumes the betrayed primarch as he dies under his brother’s onslaught.

But they will, of course. One day, they all will; each and every gene-son of the Angel will feel the grip of that same black, black rage – and be devoured by it.

 _“Father!”_ Sanguinius’ voice is filled with contrite anguish, his powerful muscles straining as he mentally reaches out, seeking comfort and absolution in the form of the Emperor, once believed to be dead, now the only being giving the primarch the strength to fight on as the Triumvirate pushes onwards through the Ruinstorm towards distant Terra. “Father, hear my cry…I am coming. I have sinned against You. Absolve me…I never wanted to be a usurper – I never wanted to be Emperor!”

Weeping still, Azkaellon places his gauntlets protectively against the Angel’s trembling hands as Raldoron tenderly strokes the primarch’s matted hair, deftly untangling it with his bare fingers. Their calm considerate actions give lie to the grief and growing anger that rages through their minds and blood. If only they could strike back at the unseen forces torturing their gene-sire; if only a visible foe could present itself and give them the outlet they need to draw their weapons and vent their wrath. Helpless in the face of the Angel’s suffering the Space Marines jointly barricade their minds in brutal fantasies of future vengeance and violence; but even these the shadow taints, twisting them into scenes of damnation and failure. Then, for a second time, the shudders subside and Sanguinius’ muscles go slack once again. Awareness dawns in his eyes and he turns his head slightly to look upon Azkaellon’s face. The Blood Angel forces himself to meet his primarch’s gaze, steeling himself against the profound sorrow emanating from Sanguinius’ very essence.

“Why, Azkaellon?” the Angel asks despairingly. “Why did He lie to us? Why didn’t He tell us the truth? We should have known. The gods exist and, and – ” the primarch’s sublime features contort in unmitigated horror and his breathing sharpens, “ – they want me to _join_ them, to become the –”

Visions of the Warmaster violate Sanguinius' mind anew. He thrashes and strains as Horus’ talons rip into him over and over, no longer conscious of the most beloved of his sons striving to comfort him as he has asked, but is instead dashed down again upon the deck of the _Vengeful Spirit_ , bloodied and ruined as Horus looms over him, swollen vast and sin-black with hideous unholy power, his clawed gauntlet raised to deliver the killing strike. Raldoron looks away as blood breaks out on Sanguinius’ brow, running in bright crimson streams down the Angel’s face as he struggles valiantly against his destruction.

“This…this cannot go on.” Azkaellon raises his head, unwilling to meet the First Captain’s eyes. Raldoron’s teeth are bared in a rictus of anger and his own breathing has become short and heavy. “We must send for Mkani Kano. He will know what to do. He brought the primarch back once before, he can do it again.”

Guilt pierces Azkaellon. On Signus the Red Thirst had overwhelmed the whole Sanguinary Guard, Azkaellon included. They had abandoned the wounded Angel to rampage mindlessly against the daemonic hordes of the Citadel, all discipline gone, leaving the comatose primarch alone with the Legion’s former Librarians. Aided by his brothers’ powers Kano had rescued Sanguinius from the mental shackles of nightmare and vision, returning him to full awareness in time for the final confrontation with the demon-leaders Kyriss and Ka’Bandha. In his heart of hearts Azkaellon has never forgiven himself for forsaking Sanguinius during his most helpless hours. It is an unhealing wound he nurses in secret, a shameful memory forever pushing him to greater efforts in an attempt to ensure that such a thing will never happen again.

Now, with the Angel helpless before him, alternatively pleading for Horus to stop and begging for the Emperor’s forgiveness, Azkaellon catches a glimpse of his own redemption, for a way to put that which had almost destroyed him to a beneficial use. He meets Raldoron’s furious gaze and shakes his head. “No – if Sanguinius had desired Kano to bolster him he would have summoned him instead of us. We are the ones he wants at his side, therefore we are the ones who must restore him. It is our duty.”

“How’s that, brother? Neither of us possesses the gift. Do you plan to slap and shake our primarch until the visions cease and depart due to your unrelenting pestering? That will not work; you know it will not.”

Azkaellon licks his lips involuntarily. He must choose his words with care. “Sanguinius must be given a life-line, something that will pull him away from the nightmares, something his mind will seize and fixate upon at the expense of all else, even the visions.”

Now it is Raldoron’s turn to look perplexed. “What could we possibly employ that would have that kind of effect?”

Mirroring his brother’s earlier actions, Azkaellon removes the gauntlet from his good hand and flexes the living flesh of his fingers, his hearts tightening within him. He raises his hand and his next words cause the First Captain’s breath to catch in his throat.

“Blood, brother." Azkaellon's white fangs gleam as he sinks them into his palm. "We will use blood.”

**III.**

_The Great Angel fights and falls and dies. Again and again and again. Horus mocks his brother. The striking talons twist and tear deeper and deeper, questing for his laboring hearts. Agony washes through him, unrelenting. He begs Horus to stop. The Warmaster towers above him, laughing, the colors of ruin haloing his head. Sanguinius can barely recognize the brother he once knew and loved. Horus grins at the Angel’s pain. By his will Terra will fall and the galaxy will burn. Sanguinius sinks to the deck, his strength ebbing away, his wings broken. Blood cascades down his sides beneath his shattered armor. Despair fills his mind and he futilely raises an arm in hopeless defiance against the coming end. Then, impossibly, the vision shifts and the course of events change. Horus drops to one knee beside him. He grips Sanguinius by his gorget and forces him down onto his back, pinning him against the deckplate. The Angel cannot resist him. The traitor-primarch extends an unarmored, almost normal-looking hand towards his face. Dark tainted blood drips like ichor from a wound in his palm. Drink, the Warmaster bids. Drink and be enlightened. Drink and be freed. Sanguinius struggles to turn his head away even as the Thirst compels him to open his mouth with obscene eagerness. Horus’ blood spills across his tongue. No wine ever tasted so sweet, so rotten. He bites down on his brother’s proffered hand, the craving strong upon him. Tears of shame run down his cheeks. Horus smiles again. Is it good, brother? The Angel shudders with pleasure and revulsion. Yes. No. I am going to kill you. The Warmaster shakes his head. You can't._

**IV.**

The copper-rich stench of blood suffuses the entire chamber with far more potency that it normally should have. Cradling the Angel’s head Raldoron watches in horrified fascination as Azkaellon bends over the stricken primarch, extending a mutilated palm dripping bright blood. Sanguinius’ fangs are bared with the strain of his mental labors, his perfect face a contortion of divine beauty under siege. Before the wound can close the Captain of the Sanguinary Guard cups his hand gently across the Angel’s mouth. “Drink, sire.” Azkaellon’s whisper is soft and cajoling, though only a fellow Space Marine could detect the pleading note hidden beneath. “Drink and forget your pain.” Sanguinius becomes utterly still in Raldoron’s arms. There is a breathless pause that seems to stretch into infinity. Then the Angel’s eyes open wide, fogged in red, and he begins to lap from the offered wound. Reaching up he grips Azkaellon’s wrist with one hand and even the legionary’s enhanced limb looks like a child’s arm clasped by the inexorable fingers of a displeased adult.

“Just until it heals, at least,” now Azkaellon speaks as if to himself. “It will be enough. Come back to us, father. Come back. We need you – we will always need you.”

Sanguinius’ muscles tense again, then with a muffled moan he sinks his fangs deep into Azkaellon’s palm, his jaws working rhythmically as they rend and reopen the mending flesh, fresh blood spilling anew down his chin and cheeks. The Angel is weeping, his crimson-suffused eyes tortured pits of shame and despair and rage. He begins to shudder again, his body trembling violently, this time with desire and hunger. Raldoron struggles to hold him and shoots a desperate took at the kneeling Azkaellon. “Withdraw, captain! Back away – this isn’t working!”

Pain flares in Azkaellon’s eyes. Remorse and guilt twist his handsome face. “I left him once before, on Signus. I will never do so again.” Sanguinius' hand shoots out and sizes the rim of the legionary's gorget, his grip inescapable. The Angel growls, a guttural, feral, completely inhuman sound. Then he rears up, and Raldoron scrabbles backwards as the primarch wrenches Azkaellon’s hand from his mouth with great effort, his lips and chin coated in the Blood Angel’s presumptuous gift. A sharp crack echoes through the Sanctorum as Sanguinius breaks Azkaellon’s wrist, crushing bone and ceramite alike in his superhuman grasp. With a roar of fury the Angel slams the Space Marine to the floor, his wings flaring as he crouches over his stunned gene-son, his mouth agape, his fangs extended to their fullest, his curse and his beauty blended perfectly in equal measure.

“My lord primarch!” Raldoron’s bellowing shout does not even capture the Angel’s attention. There is no awareness in Sanguinius’ eyes, no sense of time or place. He is still in a world of nightmare and vision, in that vague nether-region where the present bleeds into the future and the future slays the present. The shadow of the Pilgrim enfolds them, filling Raldoron’s mind with scenes of chaos and death. The force of the psychic attack causes blood to run from his nose and ears. Collapsing onto his side the First Captain retains just enough mental fortitude to touch his vox-bead and give a brief, desperate order before the darkness descends and drags him down into its fathomless depths.

**V.**

_Drink. Drink, brother. Know the truth. Accept the inevitable. Horus is bestride him now, dominating the Angel with his vast armored bulk. His talons delicately caress Sanguinius’ cheek, the tips feather-light upon his skin. There is so much blood. The Angel drinks and drinks. He cannot seem to stop. He feels the taint starting to spread within him, feels foreign unholy energy course eagerly through his mauled body. The look of triumph on Horus’ face is offset by the fratricidal hatred in his eyes. The befouled blood flows into the loyal primarch and the rage awakens. No. No. He will not end like this, like a humiliated foe subservient to the whims of a cruel victor. Sanguinius’ strength waxes anew. He remembers the face of his Father. With a burst of power the Angel surges against the Warmaster, grabbing his wrists and tearing his hands away. I defy you, traitor. I am the Emperor’s faithful son. I will always defy you. Horus struggles to free himself, dismay in his eyes. Sanguinius flings him onto his side and rises. Standing over his brother he spreads his wings wide, pain and defeat a mere memory. He will save the Imperium. He will fulfill the Emperor’s dream. Stooping the Angel seizes Horus by the throat and hauls him up. The traitor-primarch thrashes in his grip, fighting to turn his own face away as the light envelops Sanguinius, bathing the Warmaster in the Angel’s manifest righteousness. The Blade Encarmine is in his hand once more. Sanguinius sets the tip of the sword under his brother’s chin. The two primarchs stare into each other's eyes for the last time. Horus sneers. Finish it, brother. Sanguinius nods, and his sword blazes with power. For the Emperor._

**VI.**

First Captain Raldoron comes to himself with a shudder and a suppressed scream as his subconscious claws its way up through the destruction and ruin of all that he has sworn to honor and defend. Less than a minute has passed. A few meters away stands Sanguinius, risen to his full height, his great wings unfurled, resplendent and terrible and utterly enraged. The Angel holds Azkaellon at arm’s length, the helpless legionary dangling from his grip like a child’s ornate rag doll. The _Blade Encarmine_ is in the primarch’s hand, the tip of the golden sword angled at the Sanguinary Guard captain’s throat. Raldoron draws his bolt pistol. “Sire! My lord, stop! Do not slay your son!” Sanguinius ignores him completely, his far-away eyes seeing an entirely different foe at his mercy. “I will save the Imperium,” the Angel snarls, his distant blazing eyes never leaving Azkaellon's pained face. “I will fulfill the Emperor’s dream.” Despair tears at Raldoron’s hearts. He cannot bring himself to fire upon his primarch, not even to save Azkaellon’s life. He stretches out a hand as if he can reason with the mad Angel, as if he can plead for Sanguinius to spare his battle-brother, as if he can do anything except watch his father slay his friend. He sees the primarch’s muscles tense ever so minutely, preparing to deliver the killing blow. The First Captain wants to look away. He cannot. Even if the Angel turns on him next he must bare witness to Azkaellon's end. There is nothing else for him to do. Sanguinius’ feathers tremble and he inclines his head towards his most loyal gene-son. “For the Emperor,” he breathes, his wan face now alight with triumph. Azkaellon closes his eyes.

The doors to the Sanctorum Angelus burst open. Raldoron turns swiftly, his bolt pistol raised. Mkani Kano storms into the chamber. The Librarian’s dark face is grimly set, his psychic hood haloed in a nimbus of unlight. At his side, although Raldoron did not summon him, is Sanguinius’ herald, the masked legionary whose identity is unknown even to the Angel himself. Kano raises his right hand and the temperature plummets. “Forgive me, father,” the Blood Angel psyker whispers quietly. A blast of telekinetic force explodes from his palm. It surges towards Sanguinius and engulfs him, throwing him off his feet and flinging him into one of the many statues of Baalite heroes and champions that populate the Sanctorum. Statue, plinth and primarch crash to the marble floor in a jarring cascade of noise. Azkaellon is torn from the Angel’s grip and is tossed across the chamber to land with a clamor of ceramite at the base of another statue.

Battling his conditioning which dictates that his gene-sire should be seen to first, Raldoron sprints towards the half-senseless Azkaellon, preparing to haul him bodily from the chamber should the Angel attempt renew his attack. Kano and the herald cautiously approach the fallen primarch. Azkaellon is stirring even as Raldoron reaches him, his broken wrist held against his breastplate, his face white with pain and shock. With a soft growl he allows the First Captain to help him to his feet. Raldoron opens his mouth but the words he means to utter are lost in a piercing cry that rips throughout the Sanctorum, a keening wail that lances into the legionaries’ psyches with nearly as much violence as the Pilgrim’s psychic doom-laden shadow.

For a second time Sanguinius stands; he rises from a ruin of statuary and cracked marble like a statue itself come to life. His eyes are clear again, a bright angelic blue. They are aware – and full of grief. The primarch’s gaze sweeps the room in the seconds it takes the four Blood Angels to kneel. A deafening silence falls. The chamber reeks of blood and ozone. Raldoron’s hearts are pounding. He watches as Sanguinius licks his crimsoned lips, his eyes darkening as he tastes the enhanced gene-craft alterations that comprise Azkaellon’s Astartes blood. The Captain of the Sanguinary Guard bows his face to the floor, disregarding his injuries. The Angel steps closer then pauses again, torn between sorrow and anger, for once uncertain of what to say or do. Raldoron cannot avert his eyes. He allowed this to happen, allowed Azkaellon to make the decision without attempting to dissuade him. It was a choice made out of madness and desperation – and it had succeeded; but at what cost?

 _Trust_ , the First Captain thinks as the primarch takes a deep breath and resettles his wings. _We betrayed his trust. Forced him to return to us by using his own flaw as a weapon. We had no right. That is not what he had wanted us to do. He merely desired comfort…to be held until the visions passed…he trusted us to withstand and accept his vulnerability and we failed. I failed._

“Leave me. _Now_.” As Sanguinius has summoned them, so does he now dismiss them. As one the three Blood Angels rise and exit the chamber. The herald remains. They say nothing. Kano is trembling and sweating from the immense psychic exertion of his powers. Raldoron places a hand on the Librarian’s pauldron to help steady him. He does not pause to retrieve his gauntlets. Azkaellon’s face is an impassive unreadable mask, his gait stiff and mechanical. Eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds have passed since they first entered the Sanctorum. Raldoron forces himself not to look back. He realizes he, too, is trembling, but for different reasons. He recalls the weight of Sanguinius’ head in his rough hands, remembers the soft silky feel of the Angel’s hair falling through his fingers. He had cradled his primarch as a mother cradles her child when it is stricken by night terrors or bad dreams. He had comforted his gene-father and yet he had still failed him. Azkaellon had been correct. They should have come to him long ago. Now Sanguinius will never summon them again, not for such tender intimate needs. He will continue to face down his inner demons alone as he always has. The cost has been trust. Raldoron bows his head. His cheeks are wet again. Still, he walks away and he does not look back.

**VIII.**

Sanguinius lowers his head in exhaustion and allows his body to visibly sag after the three legionaries depart. Raising armored fingers he touches the blood drying on his chin and mouth, the only tangible traces of Azkaellon’s obscene offering. The Pilgrim’s shadow pushes like a bow wave against the barriers of his waking mind, the visions of his inevitable death claw and stab at the orderly ranks of his conscious thoughts. Once the fleets reenter the Ruinstorm the attacks will only become fiercer and more numerous. The Angel’s lip curls in defiance, exposing darkened blood-grimed fangs. He will reunite with the Emperor, regardless of whatever waits for the Legion in the warp. Then the grief clutches at his hearts, refusing to be ignored or denied however much he might wish it to pass from him.

Sanguinius recalls Azkaellon touching his brow with such extreme tenderness, remembers Raldoron caressing his hair soothingly with soft considerate affection. The Angel utters a quiet despairing moan and his eyesight blurs slightly. A primarch was made to be a figure of awe and terror, a creature of unsurpassing intellect and godlike physical might; a being by whose hand the galaxy was to be conquered and united under the Emperor’s banner. The Angel had not been created for kindness; from the very beginning war and conquest had been the destined path for him and all his brother-primarchs, both loyalist and traitor alike. Only his Father had ever touched him in such a way, and even then it had been brief, as if the action had occurred as an afterthought rather then as a deliberate expression of genuine love. Sanguinius is many things: a primarch, the gene-sire to the Eighth Legion, a general, a commander of men and immortals, a conqueror of worlds, an emperor and a vision of divine beauty and incarnate myth to trillions of men and women the Imperium over. Fate has decreed that he is also to be a sacrifice, that he die at the hands of the traitorous Warmaster, the brother the Angel had loved above all the others.

How did it come to this? To be betrayed and slain and to accept it as his destiny and yet to be bereft of comfort and intimacy, as if such things were unnecessary and irrelevant to his existence and functionality? Do his brothers also suffer such deprivations? Do they even notice? Do they care? What would the Lion think if Sanguinius came to him only to lay his head upon his shoulder and weep? What would Guilliman say if the Angel sought him out solely to be held and soothed in arms as strong as his own? Would understanding be beyond them? The primarch recalls the plague-daemons that had invaded the _Red Tear's_ bridge, how the diseased creatures had exalted with joy in their decay and in the spreading of their vile 'gifts'. Joy has become so foreign to the Angel he often wonders if he has ever truly known it at all. Horus as brought all their works and plans to ruin; everything the Blood Angels have fought and killed for is being systematically destroyed. Perhaps the Warmaster cannot recall joy either. Throwing back his head Sanguinius casts his lament at the dome above him, hurling it at the roiling Ruinstorm obscuring the void beyond. _Father, hear my cry…Father, forgive me...  
_

“My lord primarch,” the herald’s seldom-heard voice is calm and steadfast in the face of his gene-father’s unfettered emotional agony. Approaching the Angel he kneels and proffers Sanguinius the _Blade Encarmine_. His face forever hidden behind his mask, his name and deeds struck from the Legion’s records, his identity and history forever subsumed by his role, the legionary regards his primarch from a position of dutiful humility, his expression and thoughts never to be seen or learned.

“They did it out of devotion, lord,” he says quietly as Sanguinius examines his sword. “They did it out of love.”

“I know, my son,” the Angel whispers sorrowfully as he sheathes the blade at his side. “I know. But even their love can be used against me. Go now. Secure the doors and ensure no one else disturbs my rest. This burden is mine to bear, and only in death will my duty end.”

Without another word the herald stands, salutes and departs, leaving Sanguinius alone once more. The shadow falls over him like the wing of a damned angel, blotting out the tangible reality of the present and ushering in the inevitable nightmare of the future. Slowly the Angel eases his drained body back onto the floor and wraps his arms about himself, clutching tightly as the bridge of the _Vengeful Spirit_ reappears and Horus looms up in the gloom, laughing in scorn, a dark joy in his eyes, his talons raised to deliver the killing blow.

***End***


End file.
